Hush
by pet-munchkin
Summary: She had kissed him. Not long ago on a more or less ordinary morning and with a casual gesture as if she'd be kissing him every morning... - Tonks kisses Remus one morning without so much a warning and leaves it at that. What will he make of it?


**Pairing: **R/T (as if there'd be a better choice...)

**Rating:** Kplus

**Warning:** Hm... grammar mistakes? Yeah, probably...

**Length: **about 1,310 (bit short, I know...)

**Disclaimer: **Do you think that if HP belonged to me, I would've ever brought an end to it? Merlin, NO! So it's all JKR's and yes, it's her fault as well that HP's done and all we can live from now is fanfiction... -sigh-

**Summary: **_She had kissed him. Not long ago on a more or less ordinary morning and with a casual gesture as if she'd be kissing him every morning._ - What if Tonks kissed Remus one morning and decided to just leave it that way? Of course Remus is rather confused by this, so...

**Alternative title: **_Not A Word _was actually the first title that I had in mind for the story while I was writing it. After having finished, however, I thought that _What's In A Word_ would fit a lot better (read and you'll see why). In the end I settled for a much simpler title as you can see, although I'm still not sure... I believe this one will always have three different titles, just choose the one you like the most. ;)

**Beta:** Er... I should really get myself a beta, right? So for the time being: none

**Author's Notes: **A bit unusual this one. I came up with the idea of a kiss that neither of them talks about and pretty much ignores, at least on the outside. As if it's something regular to do although it's not... Sorry, hard to decribe what's so fascinating about this but someday I'd like to make another story with the same subject, probably a companion piece, don't know yet. Anyway, have fun reading!

OoOoOoOoO

**Hush**

Not a word. Nothing. Not from him or her. Neither spoke of it or acted strange because of it. Possibly, he mused sometimes, she didn't even think of it anymore, didn't even consider it any longer. He, however… well, on the outside he could be calm and controlled and treat her just like it used to be, nicely, kindly, very much the way he treated everyone else and yes, he could even appreciate her as he had always done for she was something special, he had had to admit to himself. But nevertheless, something had changed still. Something was oddly wrong, terribly not right. He knew it within him, felt it in his heart, the very part of himself that he could hide but never entirely control. The feeling would rise every now and then; at Order meetings when he sometimes lost train of thought and instead watched her listen to Dumbledore's words with interest and enthusiasm, her legs dangling, her hand playing with a lock of her ever-changing yet lovely hair; on evenings in the library when she would accompany him while he was reading, from time to time distracted by her presence, the way she scrunched up her nose when changing her appearance, the sound of her voice when she laughed, light, soothing, beautiful; and then late at night in his own bed when he found the time to think, really think, about everything, about her, why she had done what she had done and if it meant anything to her, because he had found that it did to him. Yet, still, not a word came from his mouth whenever he considered bringing up the topic…

She had kissed him. Not long ago on a more or less ordinary morning and with a casual gesture as if she'd be kissing him every morning. As light as a feather had her lips been on his and gone the next second. The way lovers kissed after they had had the time to build up a relationship on trust and appreciation, he thought. The way Molly kissed Arthur, he had noticed. The way a wife would kiss her husband…

He swore he could've never seen it come. No one could have. He wondered if it might have surprised her, too, if she hadn't intended to really kiss him, probably aimed for his cheek but strangely missed it. If she had just felt awful and sought for comfort the wrong way. If she had mistaken him for somebody else, although he couldn't find it within him how this might work since he saw himself as someone who couldn't be mistaken for anybody else. Peculiar was the fitting word. Old, shabby, sarcastic even if people often didn't notice, dangerous which people noticed all the more instead…

Yet, she had kissed him. The scene played in his head, over and over again. She may have not intended to for whatever reason, surely not meant it, at least not in the way he knew she couldn't have meant it, but there was no mistaking in the simple fact that she had kissed him on that morning, not two weeks ago. A Saturday, he remembered. Sun shining, a cold breeze coming through the open window. He had shivered. The clock had said half past five, so early again but normal for him since he could never sleep long. Neither had he slept well that night. But, luckily, it had been over, another month until the next loss of control and humanity, until renewed establishment of madness and the urge to destroy everything and everyone. He had felt awful, exhausted and tired this morning, and he supposed that it had shown, that it always showed on him. Another fact he had accepted long ago, anger and bitterness in his heart but comprehension and calmness on the outside. A circle of doom, all things considered.

She had entered the kitchen at a quarter to six. Odd in her behaviour, he had thought, for she would either not get up until nine or be gone already at four throughout the regular week. Who knew, if she hadn't got up this early, nothing might have happened; no kiss, no awkward silence on his part a whole day long, no repression of it by both of them the next few days... But she had come for breakfast this morning and it had been only him standing in the kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. Brown hair, he had noticed. Still beautiful, he had thought though later on reprimanded himself. She had looked very tired, almost as much as he and he had wondered for a fleeting second if she had had the time to sleep at all that night, probably been on duty until early. He had greeted her, kindly, a warm smile on his face, the way he greeted people usually. No strange behaviour on his part, he mused. All the more on her part, however. He might have seen it come after all, he thought. She had smiled at him, wearily, greeted him back and stumbled to where he had stood. So close to him the next moment that he had been able to smell the faint air of vanilla in her hair. She had sniffed at his chocolate, said something about it being delicious. Strange behaviour indeed. No, he thought again, he couldn't have seen it come at all, she had been too fast for that because the next moment he had known, she had placed her hand over his holding the mug and tilted it over, taking a sip. She had closed her eyes as if enjoying and then stood up on her toes and kissed him. Just a second, shortly, softly, lazily, the flavour of chocolate left behind on his lips. And he had tasted her smile.

After that, all had been changed. All yet nothing for he had acted strange only on that day and resumed his normal state of action later on. She, on the other hand, hadn't acted strange at all. Didn't still. She had, in fact, simply kissed him and left it at that; nothing more, nothing less. She hadn't told him why, hadn't spoken about it, hadn't hinted anything about what she thought of it. Embarrassment, he had mused, but it hadn't worked out for she had been like always; friendly, delightful, cheery, colourful. A nymph as sweet as honey in the greyed wasteland of his life. As if she might believe it to be normal to kiss him on an early, after full moon morning at a quarter to six, with a hot mug of chocolate in his hands and a slight smile on her face while brushing her lips against his. A kiss between friends, he told himself finally, though it still recalled the memory of Molly and Arthur, wife and husband, lovers within him.

--

But he wasn't to know yet that this wouldn't stay the only strange behaviour she'd show around him. Two weeks later she would be there again, in the kitchen, after another full moon night. She would greet him with a mug of hot chocolate, take a sip herself to taste if it was good, then offer him. He would wonder again, think about their kiss once more and later on why she had done it twice, that this couldn't be coincidental. Three weeks after their second kiss he would know, because she would tell him, everything, and kiss him again and he would surprise himself and her, too, by saying that he felt the same. They would start their relationship that very evening and he would look back on the morning where it all began and think: after all, he really could have known. He could have told from the first kiss, because, all things considered, _what's in a word?_

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_What's in a word?_ Well, there's a lot in a word! So let me know what you think! ;D

Weekends suit me well; see ya und tschüß


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